Ordinary Things
by paganpunk2
Summary: A series of shorts focusing on Dick and other members of the Batfam, all inspired by the quote "sometimes the most ordinary things can be made extraordinary, simply by doing them with the right people." T for language.
1. The Car Wash

**Author's Note: This is the first piece in a little shorts series I'm calling 'Ordinary Things.' It will probably be somewhere between four and six chapters, with each chapter featuring Dick and one other person doing something 'ordinary' that turns extraordinary. The underlying inspiration for this series is the quote "Sometimes the most ordinary things can be made extraordinary, simply by doing them with the right people."**

**Happy reading!**

* * *

"How's it going, little brother?"

Damian slackened his pressure on the nozzle of a long hose and watched the cold stream die away before he answered. "The same as I said earlier. Stupidly."

Dick sighed. "Dami-"

"Why do we have to wash the car every damn night, anyway? It's just going to get dirty again when we go out later. This is a waste of time." Aggravated, he nudged a nearby bucket with his foot. It tipped, seemed about to go over, then defied him by settling back into place.

"Well..." Dick leaned against a pillar, his face pensive. "I guess it goes back to something Bruce used to say."

"Oh, great. I swear to God, Grayson, if you're going to get sappy..."

"I'm not," he assured. "I'm not. But Bruce used to say that going out with day-old dirt on the Batmobile would make it look like we'd gotten lazy. He said if people thought that, their fear of us – or their awe of us, depending on the person – might wane. It was kind of difficult for me to see why that mattered back then, but I guess being responsible for Batman's image has given me some perspective." His shoulders rose and fell in a gentle shrug. "That's all it is, really, is imagery, but imagery is everything. Especially when it's going past at eighty miles an hour," he joked. "On the plus side, you should be about done by now, right?"

"Yeah. So can we _go_ already?"

"In a sec. Just let me check." The man walked towards the vehicle with his thumbs stuck in his belt loops. When he reached the far side, he groaned. "Daaaami..."

"What?! I washed the stupid thing, didn't I?"

"You didn't rinse this side before the soap dried. It's all smeary and spotted."

"Tsk." Dropping the hose, he crossed his arms and rolled his eyes. "So what, am I grounded or something now? That's what _he'd_ do."

Dick's gaze hardened, and Damian knew he might have pushed too far. After a moment his posture relaxed, however, and a hint of a smile crossed his lips. "No. You're not grounded. But," he went on before the boy could start to think he'd gotten away with his half-assed scrubbing, "you _do_ have to wash the car properly before we can go out."

"Goddamn it-"

"In the interest of time," he overrode him, "I'll help you."

Damian paused. "Help me how?"

"You wash, I'll rinse. That way you don't have to run back and forth, and I can make sure that all of the soap gets cleaned off. Deal?"

"...Can we make it fast?" As it was they would be eating into patrol time, and he got little enough of that as it was.

"That's up to you. The faster you scrub, the faster I rinse, the faster we go. Got it?"

He glanced down at the pail of soapy water he'd kicked before and was suddenly glad that it hadn't overturned. Bending down, he seized it. "Yeah. Okay. Let's get this over with."

Five minutes later he'd worked his way up one side and onto the hood. His sponge was performing a few final circles on a headlight when a blast of icy liquid hit him just below the right knee. His jeans and sock were instantly soaked, sticking to his skin like a clammy wrapper. "What the _hell_, Grayson!" he shouted, turning.

"Sorry! I wasn't aiming for you, honest."

"..._Don't_ do it again."

"Okay, okay."

For a while, all was calm. As Damian leaned down to swipe at the spots along the bottom of the passenger door, though, he was doused again. This time the water hit his left wrist and ran down his arm, slipping under his sleeve and into his armpit. Caught off guard, he squealed and leaped away from the car. An instant later, embarrassed by his childish reaction, he lobbed the sponge at his brother. "Asshole! Oh..." His hand went to his mouth as the soapy object hit Dick square in the face. It hung there for an moment before it succumbed to gravity, leaving behind a grinning, sputtering figure. "Um...Grayson...shit..."

"I'm gonna get you for that, little brother."

"What- ah!" he cried as the spray was turned on him once again. He ducked, but the hose followed him, dropping to direct its payload beneath the vehicle. "Son of a-"

"Are you going to whine or fight, Dami?!"

That joyful call made him smirk. This wasn't just payback; his partner was having _fun_. Eyeing a new weapon that could match the one firing on him, his resolve firmed. "I choose fighting!" he hollered, and bolted to re-equip himself.

He was dripping from head to toe by the time he got the second hose hooked up, but his retribution was swift. Giving a great battle cry, he bolted around the car and sent water everywhere. A series of stumbling splashes resulted, signifying his opponent's retreat, and his smirk turned into a full-on grin. Maybe, he reflected as he darted backwards towards the relative safety of the vehicle's rear, just _maybe_, washing the car wasn't so bad after all.

They carried on for another ten minutes before their half-frozen hands began to cramp. "Truce?" Dick's disembodied voice submitted, and Damian, panting as he leaned against a damp hubcap, didn't argue.

"Truce."

Abandoning their armaments, they stepped out of hiding and took in one another's condition. There was scarely a dry spot on either of them, and as they realized as much both laughed. "You're _soaked_," Dick pointed.

"_You're_ soaked," Damian pointed back.

"Yeah..." The man stretched, then closed the gap between them and slung his arm around the child's shoulders. "Nice shot with that sponge, little brother."

"Yeah, well..." He blushed, not having meant to hit him in the face but unwilling to apologize for having done so.

"It's okay," he was excused. "I needed a shower anyway. Besides, that was one heck of an opening salvo."

"I believe in finishing my enemies quickly." As he slipped out of the embrace, his eyes fell on the Batmobile. "Ah, shit, it's still half-streaky!"

To his surprise, Dick made a disinterested noise in the back of his throat. "That's okay. I'm going to go start changing. You clean up out here so Alfred doesn't have a fit, then get ready."

"But you said the car has to be clean!"

"It does. And it will be before we go." Ruffling the boy's hair, he started towards the main section of the underground complex. "We'll just take it through the car wash," he called over his shoulder.

Damian's jaw dropped. "Are you kidding me?! _What_ fucking car wash?"

"The one here in the cave. Bruce just preferred a more hands-on approach, so we almost never used it." Pausing, he looked back and grinned. "We can from now on, though, if you want. But Dami?"

"What?" he ground out, waiting for an opportunity to grab the hose at his feet once more and punish Grayson for keeping such a convenient secret from him.

"If you spray me as I walk away, we'll never wash the car by hand again." Tossing him a knowing wink, he swiveled on his heel and started off to gear up.

He was torn, aching for revenge but also secretly hoping that the play they'd indulged in tonight might be repeated at a later date. His gaze travelled between his mentor's receding back and the nozzle shining temptingly near his toes. Finally Dick was far enough away that the water's arc wouldn't reach far enough to be effective. Damian sighed, half relieved and half disappointed. Giving people what they deserved was great, he mused, but somehow...somehow what had just happened was much, much better. With that in mind, he bent down and began cleaning up.


	2. Juggling Act

It had been Alfred's habit for many years past to do the grocery shopping on Wednesday mornings. He had found through trial and error that that was the time when his preferred market was the least crowded and the produce the freshest, and as such he marked those hours out on his calendar each week.

Now, though, he sighed as he studied the half-empty refrigerator, that simply wouldn't do. He had hoped that he might be able to keep to his old schedule despite the introduction of the boy into the household, but it was proving impossible. As it was he had already had to postpone his replenishing of the larders once in order to take the child to a court-mandated appointment, and this was only the second week of his residence. He didn't mind, per se – he liked the youth, and he certainly had no reason to complain about the changes his presence had already caused in Bruce – but it was going to take some getting used to.

As he fretted over the lack of broccoli for dinner it occurred to him that Sunday morning might prove an adequate substitute to his usual mid-week trip. The market opened early enough, and he should manage to avoid the weekend crowds so long as he completed his tasks before eleven or so. He generally strove to ensure that he was home and available to his charge on non-business days, but the cabinets were embarrasingly bare and he couldn't stand it. If he left soon there was even a good chance that he would be back before either of them got up. He would go now, he nodded to himself, and fix them the freshest eggs Gotham had to offer when he returned.

His hand was on the front door's latch a few minutes later. Pausing, he ran back over his preparations. A list of needed goods crackled in his pocket; his wallet with the credit cards linked to the Manor's household accounts was tucked neatly in his free palm; he'd left a note on the kitchen counter on the off chance that one of the pair sleeping upstairs awoke during his absence. Everything was correct and in place.

"...Alfred?"

The small voice stopped him in his tracks. Releasing the knob and turning around, he found the child standing three risers from the bottom of the steps. He had dressed for the day, he noted, but was still swiping sleep from his eyes. "Good morning, Master Dick. You're up rather early." He paused. "Is everything all right?"

"Um...yeah. I guess so." His tone was unconvincing, and after a moment he gave up the truth. "I had a nightmare."

"I see." A vague hesitation caused him to hold his tongue beyond that acknowledgement. While he had plenty of experience in calming the bad dreams of children wounded by fate, Bruce had evinced an obsession with handling those that visited the youth, and he didn't want to step on the man's toes. At the same time, he could hardly leave the poor thing to suffer on his own in a still-strange house. "I take it that Master Wayne is still abed?"

"Uh-huh. I tried to wake him up, but he must be really tired, 'cause he just rolled over. Then I tried to go back to bed, but...I can't sleep anymore right now. So I thought I'd come find you. I got dressed, though," he pointed out. "Bruce said you don't like it when we come down all rumply in the morning."

"Did he? Well, then..." He was at an impasse. The young master wasn't quite old enough to be left home alone, and even if he had been such an abandonment would be cruel in light of his bad dream. On the other hand, he simply _had_ to get to the market, and before much longer too. Part of the brilliance of making the trip this morning had been that Bruce was home to tend to the boy. That advantage seemed to have fled along with the child's ability to sleep, however, so he resigned himself to the inevitable. "I was just on my way out to do the shopping," he informed the pointed face whose attention hadn't wandered while he'd wrestled with his options. "Would you care to accompany me?"

The bright blue eyes that reminded him so distinctly of the shade Bruce's had been before tragedy darkened them opened wide. "Can I?! That would be so neat!" Jumping the last three steps, he scampered to the butler's side. "I've never been to a rich-people grocery store. Are you sure it's okay?"

"It's perfectly fine, young sir," he assured, moved once again by the strange combination of eagerness and uncertainty that Dick had displayed on several previous occasions. "Come along, and we'll add your name to the note I left on the counter for Master Wayne. We don't want him to wake up and think you've vanished."

"No, that would be bad."

Well, then, they would go together after all, he chuckled as they headed for the kitchen. It wouldn't be the fastest grocery shopping he'd ever undertaken, not with an eight-year-old in tow, but perhaps he might learn a little something about his new charge in those extra minutes. That, at least, would make the delay worth it.

* * *

"Woooow..."

Alfred glanced down at his shopping companion. The boy's amazement at the size of the store they had entered was enchanting, and his lips twitched into a near-grin as he took in his expression. "Shall we begin, young sir?"

"Yeah! I'll get a cart!"

"Very well." He watched as the youth skipped over to the corral and chose a basket. "Is that the one?"

"Yup! Where do we start?"

"Hmm...I'll tell you what," he proposed, pulling out the list and a pen. "Why don't you be in charge of directions? Everything is grouped into its department, so you needn't worry if you don't know what something is. All you have to do is read off what we need and then cross it out once we've put it in the basket."

Dick hesitated. "Um..."

"...Something the matter, young sir?"

"No...it's just...well..." He glanced around, seeming to check that they were still alone in the vestibule. "Mom used to let me do that," he whispered finally. "She said it was good reading practice."

"Ah." It wasn't a propitious start to their trip, and Alfred knew he needed to reverse the mood before it settled in and ruined the entire experience. "If you'd prefer not to be in charge of the list, Master Dick, it's quite understandable," he excused him gently. "Would you rather act as runner and fetch the things I ask you to?"

"Could I instead? Please?"

"Of course."

They made their way to produce first. The stacks of colorful fruits and vegetables never failed to take Alfred back to the foreign open-air markets he had known many years before, and he had a tendency to linger over his choices. Dick, it seemed, was just as pleased with their first stop. The tears that had been perched on the edges of his eyelids a moment before dried up without falling, and before long he had disentangled his fingers from the cart in order to venture a short distance ahead.

Relieved, the butler began meting out assignments. Lettuce, cabbage, artichoke, and kale all went into the basket without any questions or difficulty. He sent the boy to fetch a bag of potatoes, then became so caught up in an examination of the broccoli that he didn't hear him return.

"...I can't get them in the basket," an apologetic pant finally drew his attention.

He turned to find him laboring under a package that weighed a fifth of what he did. He'd wrapped both of his arms around the slippery plastic, hugging it to his chest in order to waddle back with it. "I'm sorry, young sir," Alfred said, bending to take the load. "It should have occured to me that you might have trouble with such a large delivery."

"It's okay," Dick answered, frowning down at the front of his sweater and brushing away a little loose dirt. "I got them, I just couldn't lift them over my head, that's all."

"Well, you did an admirable job. No one can accuse you of shirking your task, that's for certain."

"That's good. I don't want people to think I'm lazy."

"I don't think you need worry about that. But tell me, do you like broccoli? No, I thought probably not," he nodded when the child wrinkled his nose. "That's fine; today's selection is sub-par in any case. This small amount will have to suffice." Bruce would be happy to see fewer greens than usual on his plate this evening, anyway.

They worked their way into fruit, and suddenly Alfred didn't have to ask questions in order to learn about his new charge. Dick had never had pineapple that didn't come from a can, it was revealed, so they selected a fresh one as a treat. He all but licked his lips as they stood in front of the strawberries, so an extra container was purchased and a promise of shortcake made. Red apples were boring, came a childish report, so a few green ones had to come along for afternoon snacks. Limes were yummy, lemons gross, and tropical fruits, many of which had not yet crossed the young palate, were fascinating.

The youth professed a great knowledge of oranges from several winters spent in Florida and southern Spain, so he was sent off to fetch a few for the fridge. Busy weeding out grapes – the selection really was abysmal in comparison to Wednesdays, he sighed – Alfred didn't ken to how many minutes had elapsed until a giggle reached his ears. Frowning, he looked up. There was no one nearby save a solitary woman looking over the olive bar, leaving only one possible source of the sound. Just as he was about to call out, a bright sphere sailed in an arc above a pile of peaches. It was as good as a flare, and he chased it with one eyebrow raised. "Master Dick!" he exclaimed as he rounded the corner.

Two of the three clementines that had been airborne plopped into waiting palms. The third hit the floor with an odd _splat_ that made both man and boy wince. "Oh...'m sorry, Alfred," Dick murmured as he stared at the fallen fruit. "I didn't mean to be bad."

"...Were you just juggling with those, young sir?" He knew he should be upset with him for ruining a perfectly good piece of citrus, but he couldn't manage the feat. The laugh he had overheard had been the happiest to leave the child's throat since he'd come to the manor, and if he dampened it with a lecture on propriety he feared he might quash it permanently. Besides that, juggling was a trick which he had secretly tried to learn on more than one occasion, but to no avail. To know an eight-year-old who had mastered it was mind-blowing.

"I, um...yes. I'm sorry. I won't do it again." As if to seal his promise, Dick put the two clementines he had caught back in the stack and bent to pick up the third. "...I don't know what we should do with this one. It's kind of squishy now."

"Give it here, and we'll turn it in when we see an employee. As for your actions, don't apologize for having juggled, only for what you chose to do so with." Reading confusion on his face, he clarified. "Try to refrain from using foodstuffs to practice your circus tricks. We'll speak to Master Wayne about procuring you the proper equipment."

"Really?! That would be so neat! I only used these because they were the right size, you know? They were kind of off, though, since they're not perfectly round." Grinning now that he could be certain he wasn't in trouble, he handed over the third fruit. "Here's the broken one."

Their expedition continued in high spirits through the rest of their produce shopping. The only sober moment came when Dick was made to apologize to one of the stockers for the ruined clementine. He was perfectly serious in his regret, especially when Alfred offered to pay for the mishap. The aproned woman they were speaking with waved them away, however, wearing an indulgent smile and commenting that 'boys will be boys.' It wasn't quite the reaction that the butler had expected, but he let it go. His charge seemed to understand why what he'd done was wrong, and that was enough for now.

They moved through the meats next, where he had to smile at the child's giddy reaction to the neat trays of seafood. A few minutes later he hummed in amusement as Dick pressed his finger against a plastic-wrapped piece of beef tongue and made an awful face. His delight waned somewhat in the dairy department, where the youth could hardly stand to be parted from the massive selection of fine cheeses before he'd had a chance to sound out all of the tongue-twisting names. "Come along, young sir," he requested for the third time, drawing him away from the glass. "We have yet to visit the dry goods and the bakery, and we need to hurry."

"Aw, why do we need to hurry? There's so much to see..."

"I understand, dear boy, but you'll notice that the crowds are beginning to catch us up." Indeed, they no longer had whole sections to themselves as they had at the start, but instead found themselves making way for other customers and even, from time to time, having to wait to access a product. "We need to finish our chore here and get home so that I can fix you...breakfast..."

"Alfred? What's wrong?"

Had he really been in such a rush that he'd taken the child straight from his bed and out to the store without so much as a crumb of food? Giving a mental _tsk_ at his own short-sightedness, he shook his head. "My apologies, young sir, but I failed to feed you this morning, didn't I?"

Dick just shrugged. "You were almost out the door when I stopped you. It's okay."

"It is no such thing. One of my primary tasks is to ensure that you and Master Wayne are well fed, and I very much dropped the ball-"

"The clementine?"

"-on that count this morning. Good heavens, I don't know what came over me..." A hundred excuses ran through his head, chief among them the disruption of his schedule that the boy's arrival had caused. None of them felt sufficient, however, and he persisted in blaming himself. No wonder the child had grown a bit whiny back at the cheese counter; he must be half-starved, and here they were still an hour and some minutes from home...it simply wouldn't do.

Fortunately there was little that they needed in dry goods, and the bakery was giving out free samples of a new cherry-rye concoction whose aroma caused Dick to bite his lip in anticipation. They both took a half-slice, but as soon as they were out of sight of the stand's attendant Alfred pressed his serving into his charge's hand. "Here, young sir, have mine as well. I've eaten, and can wait for lunch."

"You're sure?"

"Quite sure. Go on." It was paltry compensation for neglect in the butler's book, but the boy just gave him a happy smile and accepted.

They were halfway through checking out when Dick let out a low, interested coo. "They have a restaurant in here?" he asked, pointing.

"Let's keep our fingers contained, please. As for a restaurant..." He turned, frowning, to see what he was talking about. "Ah, the yogurt stand," he caught on. "Yes, that is a part of the store."

"Is it good?"

"I'm afraid I don't know. I've never tried it. Thank you," he said to the cashier before turning to push the loaded cart towards the door.

"...I'll bet it's good," Dick remarked as they passed the entrance to the side attraction.

Alfred stopped, suddenly understanding that this was the boy's way of asking for some of what the yogurt bar was selling. His manner of doing so was so unlike that of Bruce at the same age that he'd nearly missed it altogether. His elder charge would have said flatly that he wanted yogurt, and yogurt he would have gotten; Dick, on the other hand, was giving him every opportunity to say no, or even to walk past without acknowledging the subtle request. Whether that tactic was the result of a childhood spent thus far in something approaching poverty or simply a side effect of his more genial nature, he didn't know. He supposed that it didn't really matter. What _did_ matter, however, was that this was a chance for him to fix his oversight of breakfast. "Would you like to try it, young sir?"

"Could I? Please? I've never gotten yogurt in a cup like that before, with stuff mixed in it."

"Of course."

Five minutes later they finally exited the market. Alfred hustled the boy into the car before he unloaded, then handed the empty cart off to a parking lot jockey. Taking up his position behind the wheel, he glanced into the back seat and found Dick beaming around the plastic spoon in his mouth. "Is it as good as you'd hoped?" he inquired.

"It's delicious! Do you want to try?"

"No, no, you eat it. You need something to hold you until I can put everything away and cook breakfast. Although at this point in the day," he considered as the dash clock lit up, "I might as well make it lunch."

"Okay. But you should try it sometime. It's good."

"I shall bear that in mind, Master Dick."

Neither spoke again for some time, Dick busy with his yogurt, Alfred dwelling on the two and a half hours that had just passed. It was only as they were rising into the hills that the silence was broken. "...Alfred?"

"Yes, young sir?"

"Do you go shopping there _every_ Sunday morning?"

"I usually go on Wednesdays, as a matter of fact. This week was unusual."

"Oh. Well...do you think I can come with you again next time? I mean...I had fun. I promise I won't juggle anything next time if you let me go back."

"...You enjoyed this outing, then?" Alfred asked, shocked. What child enjoyed a trip to the grocery store, particularly when sugary cereals and candy weren't on the shopping list?

"Yeah. Didn't you?"

"I...do you know, Master Dick, I rather _did _enjoy it," he replied, realizing as he spoke that it was the truth. "I must say that it was the most interesting trip to the grocer's that I've had in some time." He paused, considering the first question that had been broached. "I wouldn't mind your company in the future in the least, if you're truly interested."

"And maybe next time we could sit down in the store and both have yogurt? Like, together? That would be fun, don't you think?"

He raised his eyes from the road for a moment to glance at the hopeful face behind him. What had he been thinking this morning when he'd wanted to go shopping alone? In retrospect, he would have missed out on a great deal. "...I don't see how it could be anything but fun, young sir," he answered firmly. "We shall have to try it."

"Hooray!"


	3. Meet and Greet

"Knock knock."

Bruce looked up from his desk to find Dick leaning in the doorway with a tablet in one hand and a grin on his face. "Is it that time already?" he asked.

"Yup. Afraid so." Sauntering in, the younger man dropped into a chair. "You _can't_ be nervous. You've been to about eight hundred of these things before."

"Your math is flawed," Bruce informed him, leaning back to stretch as he spoke. "Eight hundred quarterly earnings meetings would require a tenure of two hundred years."

"Yeah, you're right. You don't look _quite_ that old." Dick winked.

"...You're in a mood today. What's going on?"

He laughed at himself. "I'm excited," he confessed. "I'd never been to one of these before you...until last spring, when I _had_ to go, and to be honest they're boring as hell. But now that you're back we can make fun of them together. This one won't be nearly as unbearable as the last five were."

The billionaire blinked at him. While quarterly earnings meetings were far from being his favorite part of business – they were, in fact, one of the few things he had dreaded about coming back to work after being 'dead' for some fifteen months – he recognized their importance to executive decision-making. Cracking jokes during them was something that it had never occurred to him to do. Now, though, his boy was giving him the special grin that called up all of the other shenanigans they had ever gotten into together. It had always been hard to resist that siren-song of a look, but lately it had been nigh impossible. "What makes you think I won't be paying rapt attention to the presentations? I have a lot to catch up on still, Dick."

"I know that. But I also know that a six-hundred-page report will come out of this meeting, and that there will be a copy on _both_ of our desks tomorrow morning. More importantly," his gaze twinkled, "I have listened to you complain about these meetings for going on twenty years, and I've never been able to do anything to make it more bearable for you. You better believe that I'm not going to let you brush me off with a lecture about paying attention when I'm finally getting a chance to help."

Bruce tilted his head back and let his breath rush out of his nose in something approaching a huff. Beneath those angry twin streams of air, though, he was smiling. "All right, chum," he agreed. "What's our strategy? I don't particularly want people walking out because we're cracking jokes."

"These," Dick held up his computer. "We're already going to be taking notes on them, so I figured we'd hop into a secure chat and talk that way. And if there's something we want to say that's actually about the meeting, that's even better. Then we have an excuse."

Snagging his own tablet out of a drawer, the billionaire rose from his chair. "If we've got our plan, then let's go. It will look bad if the CEO and the deputy-same are late."

"'Deputy-same'? That makes me sound like some sort of U.S. Marshal clone from a penny dreadful steampunk western." He lifted his hands into a dramatic pose and deepened his voice to sound like a stereotypical movie trailer voice-over. "Two deputies. One genetic makeup. High noon. See 'Deputy Same Versus Himself,' the high-plains, high-action thriller that has critics saying; 'this is worse than 'Sharknado'!'"

"Are you pleased with yourself about that?" Bruce chuckled, his eyes warm. _Trust Dick to manage to amuse me five minutes before a quarterly earnings meeting. Silly kid. _With any luck, he thought, the younger man's knack for diverting his attention from misery would carry right into the board room.

"It made you laugh, so...yes. I'm pleased about it. Now come on." Sweeping the door open with a flourish, he held it and bowed. "Your adoring sector heads await."

"...You're going to force me to enjoy this despite the quarter century I've spent practicing how to hate it, aren't you?" He was already smiling, but the friendly weight of his son's hand landing on his shoulder as they moved towards the elevator made the expression widen.

"Isn't that what you pay me for?"

* * *

"..._So_ glad to see you, Mr. Wayne," a ferret-faced man in a tasteless brown suit simpered at the billionaire. He had been the last person to join the executives mingling around the conference table, but he'd already proven himself to be the most annoying. Bruce was absolutely certain that he'd never met the fellow before now, but he kept up his act easily. If he'd just give him his hand back, he thought, maybe he could call the meeting to order without being rude...

A shrill whistle cut through the chatter. "So," Dick started good-naturedly once all eyes had turned to him, "we're already five minutes behind."

On that cue, a slow migration began towards the chairs. "I'm surprised you let us get away with that," Lucius joked, clapping Bruce on the back as he passed him. "What happened to Mr. Punctual?"

"That title goes to the man with the watch to match it," he replied, taking his seat at the end of the table. "That would be Dick." Aware that the comment might be taken the wrong way, he shot the person in question a wink to let him know he was teasing. Dick had tried to return the timepiece within hours of his return to the Manor, but he had refused to take it back. The two-million-dollar accessory had always been his favorite, he admitted, but that was exactly why he wanted his boy to keep it. He knew the younger man had chosen it out of all the others for its intrinsic, not its monetary, value, and that made his posession of it eminently satisfying to its previous owner.

"Ahem. I suppose we should get started, then," brown-suit announced from the front. "As Mr. Grayson pointed out, we're running late already. If that's all right with _you_, of course, Mr. Wayne?"

He had to fight to keep his face straight. "Dick's word is as good as mine." With that pronouncement he waved his hand, signaling the stranger to continue.

"...Ah. Yes, of course. Well, if everyone will just pull up the agenda on their screens, we'll run down it..."

Never one to waste an opportunity, Bruce pulled up a messaging window alongside the list of topics to be covered. '_Who is this guy?'_ he sent.

Dick arched an eyebrow a second later. One corner of his mouth rose as he tapped out a quick response, then glanced at the billionaire.

'_So much for wanting to pay attention,'_ the text opened with a playful jab. _'That's Marvin Caltrop-Weinden. We promoted him to VP of Accounting after Heather decided she wanted to spend more time with her kids and work on her novel.' _There was a pause, and then a second bubble of text. _'...No one warned us that he was such a wet sock.'_

The assessment seemed to be correct. Directing budgetary conferences was never going to win anyone a prize, at least not if Bruce had anything to say about it, but the sallow face at the far end of the table apparently hadn't gotten the memo. He sounded almost enthusiastic as he ran down the meeting order, which rarely changed and didn't really require going over. '_Poor bastard needs a new tailor,'_ he sent back, trying to feel sympathetic for this unusual specimen.

'_He needs an Alfred. Or at least someone who can teach him to keep his nose from matching his clothes.'_

Bruce had to sneeze to cover his snicker at that. The droning from the front ceased immediately, and a concerned question wafted back. "Is everything all right, Mr. Wayne? Can I get you something?"

"No, I'm fine. Just, ah, allergies or something. Please continue." As his gaze wandered back to the conversation window, he met Lucius' stare. Crinkles of amusement appeared in the corners of the older man's eyes as they flickered knowingly to Dick, and the billionaire was convinced that his CFO knew what was afoot. '_...Lucius already caught us,' _he wrote.

_'He's probably wishing he could get in on it. You want to invite him?'_

That would certainly ramp things up, he was certain. Years of friendship had informed Bruce that there was a dark trace of wit lurking under all of the political correctness and professionalism that the other man evinced in public. Bringing him in would end with all three of them choking on tears of hilarity. '_No,'_ he decided in spite of that. '_Let's just keep it you and me this time.'_

'_Okay. Oh, thank god, the sycophant is done.'_

'_Wait for it. He has a report to give too, doesn't he?'_

_ 'Don't remind me. My ears are already on the edge of bleeding...'_

They calmed down during the presentations of the first three departments. Everyone in the room save brown-suit was someone the billionaire had worked with in the past, and as a result he knew what to expect from them. None of them disappointed him, and that went triple for his son, who seemed to have had a hand in financial gains on multiple levels of the company. Had he not known that the speakers weren't the sort to pass out credit where it wasn't due he might have thought that they were praising Dick in order to gain favor. Their propensity for honesty was what had launched them to the positions they held within his company, so he trusted that their words were true and allowed himself to swell with pride.

As the speeches went on their private conversation turned more and more to business. Bruce asked dozens of questions, trying to catalogue all of the minute changes that had occurred inside of the company, its rivals, and the domestic and foreign markets during his absence. He had been slogging through backdated reports for three weeks trying to prepare, and now he saw that that work had barely given him the groundwork he needed. If he hadn't been able to get fast answers from Dick, he would have been half-lost in the sea of shifting trends and legal rulings he'd missed.

There was a coffee break at the one-hour mark, after which he felt his heart sink. Brown-suit – _Caltrop-Weinden,_ he reminded himself – was back on his feet and shuffling a fistful of papers. '..._How long are his spiels, usually?'_ he typed with a fair amount of dread.

_'Do you want the truth, or would you prefer to not facepalm in disbelief?'_

_ 'I would like both.'_

_ 'We'll take another coffee break when he's worn himself out.'_

His jaw nearly dropped. _'You're shitting me.'_

_ 'Trust me. His reports thus far at these meetings represent five hours of my life that I'd like back. There are a lot of bad movies in the world that those many minutes would have been better spent on.'_

_ '...Don't take this the wrong way, Dick, but I think keeping this guy might be one of the few poor decisions you made in my stead.'_ He wasn't exaggerating. Half of the room looked like they were preparing for a nap, and a glance down the table suggested that at least two people were playing games on their tablets. Even Lucius appeared to be ready to subtly snooze through this set of numbers.

'_I hate to say it, Bruce, but keeping marvin was one of my better decisions,'_ a defense came back._ 'I have wanted to transfer him somewhere else – anywhere else – after every meeting, but I haven't done it for one simple reason; the guy's a wizard with numbers.'_

_ 'I would hope so. He's an accountant.'_

_ 'It's more than that. Look, I can't explain in text, it's too involved, but...he's extremely good at what he does, at least when he's alone with his spreadsheets and not trying to interact with other human beings.'_

His eyes narrowed. As much as he wanted to know what made the boring figure who was currently droning on about cell revisions worthy of the position he'd been entrusted with, it would wait. Hearing the story wasn't likely to make the meeting go any faster, after all. As things were marvin had already repeated the same point from three different angles, and he was still on the first micro-department he had to cover. _'...Can you at least tell me if Caltrop is really his last name?'_

The rapidity with which Dick's fingers typed out a response told Bruce that it was a good story. '_He claims it was his mother's maiden name. His secretary, on the other hand, says he added that part to go with his character.'_

_ '...His character?'_ That made no sense. If their conversation was to be taken as any indication the accountant was incredibly easy to trod on, and was therefore nothing like the fearsome foot-puncturers of old. '_He's nothing like a caltrop.'_

_'No, I mean his 'character'. Supposedly he's really big into tabletop gaming. Not Dungeons and Dragons, but something like that. I don't know, but the rumor is that he's pretty well-known in that scene, at least in Gotham. I guess he runs a lot of games, or whatever they call them. It makes sense with his numbers wizardry, but...changing your name to Caltrop seems like going a little too far.'_

Thinking back, Bruce recalled that Tim had been into something like that at one time. He'd enjoyed it, or had at least professed to be enjoying it, but he'd certainly never been so involved that he'd considered fantasizing his name. _'If it makes him happy, I suppose.'_

_ 'Yeah. What would make __everybody__ happy is if he'd just wrap it up.'_

As if he'd overheard the request, marvin began to wind down. He reclaimed his seat a mere forty minutes after he'd left it, drawing an audible sigh of relief from several of his peers. Those who came after him were mercifully brief in their details, and by a quarter to four the meeting was done.

The billionaire grabbed his son's arm and artfully dodged out of the room while everyone else was still stretching and packing up. "...Jesus, I'd forgotten how bad those things are," he grumbled once they were in the elevator. "That man..."

"The sad thing is, he's not a bad guy," Dick shrugged. "He's annoying, he can't dress, and he's clearly got a man-crush on you, but he's an okay person when you talk to him one-on-one. He's still irritating then, but...not bad."

"...What do you mean he has a 'man-crush' on me?" Bruce frowned.

"I mean he has _never_ sucked up to me, or Lucius, or anyone else the way he did to you. I don't know what's in your cologne today, but he clearly liked it."

"I'm going to pretend you didn't say that."

"While carefully filing it away in your head in case he ever goes berserk and brings a gun to work."

"Yes. That."

Dick laughed. "Do I know you, or do I know you?"

"You know me well enough that you succeeded in keeping me entertained for almost the entirety of a quarterly earnings meeting," he answered slowly. "And that's saying a lot."

"So...it wasn't as awful as usual? Because to be honest, I couldn't tell from your expression."

"Was my misery that obvious?"

"Your poker face may have betrayed you more than once or twice, yeah."

"Damn."

"To be fair, a couple of those times you were trying not to laugh."

"...That's true." The doors opened on the executive level, and they stepped out. Suddenly Bruce reached over and gripped Dick's elbow. "Wait."

"What's up?"

"Do you have anything left in your office that has to be done today?"

"Noooo," he drew out. "Why?"

"I was just thinking...today was the first time I can ever remember wanting to burst out laughing in a quarterly earnings meeting. That seems worthy of a celebration, so I thought we might grab dinner out."

"I'm in, but I'll only tell you about Marvin's numbers wizardry if we find the most back-alley, un-Bruce Wayne Italian place in the city and eat there."

"Alfred will kill us."

"It'll be worth it."

"...Yeah. You're right. Besides, you earned it." He tightened his fingers, then released him. "Go get your jacket."

"Yup!"

Bruce traded his tablet for his overcoat, then returned to the empty executive lobby to wait for Dick. _An ordinary Wednesday,_ he mused, staring out the window at the grey Gotham afternoon. A faint smirk appeared on his lips. _'Ordinary.' Yeah, right._

His mouth softened into a smile a moment later as the younger man came into view in the window's reflection. He was bouncing, carrying his jacket over one shoulder while the least part of his inheritance shone on his wrist. _But then, _the billionaire considered as he watched him approach,_ I suppose that I always __have__ preferred the extraordinary above everything else..._

* * *

**Author's Note: I think we all know or have known a Marvin Caltrop-Weinden. Not bad people, as Dick said, but boy are they annoying.**

**I've posted a picture of Dick's two-million-dollar watch on my blog for anyone who's interested. And yes, that really IS the price tag! **


	4. Clean-up Crew

Jason was busy muttering to himself and nudging things into piles with his feet when a voice spoke from the hallway.

"Need some help?"

He turned, frowning at the intrusion on his private griping. "What?"

"I said," Dick repeated as he leaned against the door frame and took in the mess, "do you want some help?"

"Really? Because I _thought_ you said 'need'."

"Eh, slip of the tongue," the man shrugged. "But the question stands."

He stared at him for a long moment. "I don't 'need' your help," he answered slowly, "...but I _do_ kind of want it."

"Alfred said he'd have Bruce pull you from patrol if your room wasn't clean, huh?"

"Yeah. _Again_." His eyes narrowed. "How'd you know?"

"You're not the only person in the world who's ever come under that threat," Dick chuckled. "To be fair, though, Jay, you should count yourself lucky. My room was _never_ allowed to get this bad before I got in trouble." He bent down to pick up a crumpled piece of paper and then balanced it carefully atop the overflowing wastebasket. "Alfred's getting soft."

"It's not _that_ bad."

"...There's a banana peel lying on top of one of your textbooks. Not exactly a _fresh_ banana peel, either, from the look of it. That's pretty bad."

It was hard to argue with that, so Jason gave a frustrated _hmph_ instead. "Well I'm sorry that I'm not a neat freak like you are," he challenged, crossing his arms.

"Whoa, hey, relax," the older male held up both hands in a gesture of peace. "I'm not judging you, I'm just pointing out that the adjective happens to fit in this case. Anyway...I'm willing to help, if you want. I've only got one night this weekend before I have to go back across the river, and it would stink if I didn't get to patrol with you just because your room is in...ah...subpar condition."

"'Subpar condition,'" he smirked. "It's funny, you know, the way you sound so much like them sometimes." For a moment he wondered if he ever did. Would his life here ever gloss over the street kid he'd once been and, in some ways, still was, or was it already too late for him to sound like a blue-blood? He wasn't sure, which was vexing enough by itself, but more disturbingly he wasn't sure which end he would prefer if he were to be given the choice.

"Really?" Dick drew his attention back to the conversation with a question. "Does 'I'll go get some garbage bags' sound like something they'd say?"

"No. They would expect me to do it myself."

"Well, you _did_ make the mess, so I can't really blame them. But like I said, I've been in the same boat before. Besides," a gentle smile arched his lips, "Batboys have to stick together, right?"

Jason couldn't help but let his mouth bend to match Dick's. "...Yeah."

"Cool." The man's eyes suddenly sparkled with mirth. "Hey, Jay?"

"Huh?"

"...I'll go get some garbage bags."

"Okay," he laughed. "Um...thanks."

"You bet, little brother."

* * *

They stood together ten minutes later and tried to formulate a plan of action. "I think we need to take a Brazilian point of view on this job," Dick opined eventually.

"Yeah, bringing in some sand and girls in bikinis would definitely improve it."

"Ha! You're not wrong, but holy coronary, would Alfred flip or what?"

"He would, and it wouldn't get me back on patrol any faster, either."

"Nope. Plus, you might have a hard time getting girls in bikinis to come in once they see this place. Even _with_ sand, it would still be bad. Anyway, when I said 'the Brazilian point of view' I was referring to their flag, not to their beaches. Ordem e progresso," he pronounced. "That's what we need in here."

"I don't speak Portuguese," he grimaced. He worked hard at the languages Bruce had set him to learn as part of his Robin duties, but he didn't have Dick's fluid tongue and ear for conjugations. Listening to him speak something other English now just served to throw into stark contrast once again the differences between them.

"Neither do I," the man, oblivious to his inner thoughts, replied unabashedly. "I just happen to know that ordem e progresso means order and progress. It's based off a quote from Auguste Comte, or so I've heard. Even if it isn't, what we need to do is to create order so that we can make progress. So, how about this; I'll go around and throw out anything that's obviously trash, and you focus on putting stuff that _isn't_ trash away. If I find something I'm not sure about, I'll ask. Sound good?"

Jason squinted at him, considering the proposal. So far as he could remember there wasn't anything he was hiding that would be found during a routine cleaning, except... "Stay away from the bed," he ordered, "and that plan will work."

Dick's eyebrow rose. "Something you don't want me to know about going on in that area?"

"If there is, I'd have to be pretty stupid to tell you, wouldn't I?"

"Point taken. Besides, you're entitled to your privacy, so long as whatever you're hiding isn't going to hurt you or anyone else. I'll stay away from the bed."

"Okay. Good."

They began, Jason trailing behind his brother and putting away what he left behind. The silence between them was an amicable one, broken only when the occasional short conversation about one item or another was necessary.

"You want to keep this biology paper, Jay?"

"What grade did I get?"

"...Looks like a C."

"Chuck it."

"You're sure? You won't need it to study for finals or anything?"

He sighed. "...Yeah, okay, leave it there. I'll stick it in my science binder."

A minute later there was a low whistle. "Boy, did you get lucky."

He turned. "What?"

"This," Dick held up a thin book, "was hidden under a stack of scrap paper. I almost threw it out without realizing. Bruce would have been ticked."

"Oh." Jason colored slightly. "Yeah, he probably wouldn't have appreciated it if something he lent me got tossed. Then again, _you're_ the one holding the garbage bag, so..."

"Hey!"

"I'm kidding! Jeez. Besides, he would have forgiven _you_."

"...He would have forgiven you, too, little brother," the man frowned. "He might not have been so gracious about it, but...he would have forgiven you."

"Yeah, well..." He trailed off, not entirely believing the assertion but unwilling to say as much and risk the words being true. "It doesn't matter anyway, because you found it."

"Right. And now I'm going to leave it," he paused to make sure that the teen was watching, "right here. Keep it safe, huh?"

"All right, all right. I wasn't trying to lose it before, it just...got buried."

Shortly after that it was an enthusiastic 'aw!' that caused him to look up. "What is it _now_?"

"This guy," Dick held up a stuffed tiger, "is cute."

Jason swallowed. The small animal had been with him for as long as he could remember, and had been one of the few things he had counted as his own upon his arrival at the manor. He knew it was odd for a fifteen-year-old to be so attached to a toy, but he couldn't let the thing go. Keeping it hidden was, he had thought, the best way to avoid ridicule. _How did I forget that he was there?_ he fretted, his hands closing automatically into fists.

If it had had to be found by someone, though, he supposed that Dick was the least likely of anyone to think less of him for it. Hadn't the man just cooed when he'd unearthed it, after all? He relaxed at that idea and turned the angry snarl that had been about to exit his mouth into a tease. "I didn't know you were an eight-year-old girl."

"Heh. I've got a pretty good disguise, don't I? But seriously, he's cute." Dick handed the creature over with a smile. "And if anybody makes fun of you for keeping him, just tell them that your scary policeman brother still has _his_ first stuffie, too. That should shut them up."

He blinked, shocked. "...Wait, you do?"

"Yup. I don't keep her on my pillow or anything, but I could never get rid of Ellie. She's my pal."

"Yeah..." He glanced down at the tiger, then moved to place him safely on a bookshelf until he could be re-hidden. "I guess I get that."

"Sure you do, Jay. And that's awesome."

What was _really_ awesome, Jason decided twenty minutes later, was how fast his chore had gone once he'd had help. His room wasn't perfect – there was still a small pile of miscellany on his desk and a stack of clean clothes beside his closet – but it was a hundred times better than it had been. Dick vacuumed while he made the bed, and both were so involved in their respective tasks that neither heard the footsteps coming down the hall.

Just as the vacuum was switched off, the door opened. "Master Jason," Alfred's strict voice began, "I hope you've made some progress...oh, my..." Stepping inside, he stood for a moment with a stunned look on his face. "Well. You've certainly been working, I see. Master Dick," he raised an eyebrow, "I trust you didn't do it all for him?"

"Give the kid some credit, Alfie," came a good-natured reply. "We worked together. He'd have been here all weekend if he'd had to do it all by himself. Now everyone can be satisfied."

"Hmm...Master Jason?"

"Yeah?"

"If I open your closet or your dresser, will I find a jumble of items that have been shoved out of sight instead of put away properly?"

"Check, if you want," he grumbled.

Alfred did exactly that, his eyebrow rising higher with each door and drawer. "...That all checks out just fine. I must say, young sirs, that I'm rather impressed. That was very quick, and the situation in here is much improved."

"So can I go out on patrol?"

"Would you care to ask politely? Cleaning your room does not give you leave to let your attitude get out of shape."

He sighed. "...May I please go out on patrol tonight, Alfred?"

"Thank you. To answer your question, I am not aware of any reason why you should not be allowed to do so. Especially," his mouth twitched upward, "since your brother will no doubt lend you the same level of aid in that task as he seems to have done in this one." With that he headed for the hall. "...Dinner in twenty minutes, if you please, sirs," he reversed in the doorway to remind them. "You'll want to wash up thoroughly beforehand, considering what you've just been doing." Then he departed, sending them a tiny smile on his way out.

"Excellent!" Dick exclaimed when they were alone. "Now tonight will be awesome."

"You say that like it wouldn't have been if he'd grounded me. Which I know isn't true," Jason went on before a protest could be lodged, "because patrol is...well...it's almost always awesome, so long as you don't piss Batman off."

"Sure," the man nodded. "It still would have been awesome. But it wouldn't have been nearly _as_ awesome. That's what I was trying to say."

He took in his earnest expression from the corner of his eye. "...Really?"

"Absolutely, little brother," Dick grinned. A beat passed before he spoke again. "I'm going to go put this away," he patted the machine he'd been leaning against, "and take a quick shower. Unless you need me for something else?"

There was that word again; '_need._' For some reason, though, its use now didn't irk Jason the way it had earlier. "Um...no," he shook his head. "I'm good."

"Cool."

"Wait, Dick?"

"What's up?"

"Ah...that quote from earlier..."

"...'Quote from earlier'? What quote?"

"The one you said the whole order and progress thing was from."

"Oh, yeah! Sure. What about it?"

"Do...do you know the whole thing?" Jason wasn't entirely sure why he was curious about something a dead guy had said, but he asked anyway. 'Order and progress' had worked wonders on his room, after all, so maybe it would be worth remembering for some other time.

"...Gosh, let me think. It's..." He closed his eyes tightly, thinking. "It's his motto of positivism...ack, I know this...'love as a principle,'" he began, "'and order as the basis'...what's the last part? Progress...'progress as the goal!' That's it. Sorry, I hadn't thought about it in a while."

"It's okay." _Love as a principle and order as the basis; progress as the goal,_ he repeated to himself. "That's a very..._you_...thing. That quote."

Dick laughed. "It kind of is, right? Anyway...I'll see you in a few, Jay. Make sure you wash up, or Alfred will have another hissy."

"Yeah, yeah," he rolled his eyes. "I know." The door shut, leaving him by himself, and he flopped back on the bed to stare at the ceiling. "Order and progress..." The love bit was kind of sappy, but he could get behind the rest of the idea. Then again, he reflected, maybe it was love that had caused his brother to come in and propose order and progress to begin with. If that was the case, then... "Crap. It's sappy, but it's not necessarily wrong."

Sitting up again, he stared around his now-clean personal space. Today, he realized, had marked not only the fastest he'd ever straightened his room but also the most fun he'd had doing it. It still hadn't been a barrel of laughs, yet it hadn't been its usual drudgery, either. In another few weeks he'd have to do it all again, but at least now he knew the secret to making it less miserable.

If Dick was around next time, he mused as he swung his legs off of the bed and headed for the bathroom to wash up, maybe he would ask for help instead of waiting for it to come to him.


	5. Upscale Entertainment

"I hate these things," Tim sulked as he slipped into the shadowy corner he'd noticed Dick hiding in a few minutes before.

"That's some strong language."

"It fits the situation. Tuxedos, flirty heiresses, and classical music is _not_ my scene."

The man beside him chuckled. "Ah, c'mon, little brother. It could be worse."

Tim glanced at him sideways. "Says the man who can numb his pain with alcohol."

"This?" Dick held up a narrow champagne flute. "This is doing very little for me right now, to be honest. But I'm surprised you aren't used to these things by now. Didn't your parents ever make you go to them?"

"Yeah, and they were always awful. I mean...I don't know how Bruce keeps a straight face. Some of these people – most of them – have said terrible things about him in the past, and he just...acts like it never happened. It's not like _him_ at all, you know?" He stared out to where the billionaire was busy socializing in the middle of the ballroom. The brunette on his left said something, and he gave a hearty laugh that only his sons could tell was faked. For at least the dozenth time that night, he found himself impressed by his guardian's Oscar-level performance. "...He should have been an actor."

"He should have been a lot of things. But instead he's here, at a gala that he didn't really want to either put on or attend." Dick shrugged. "Watching him out there...it's a good learning opportunity, you know."

"What, you mean I should be taking notes? No thanks. I can pretty much guarantee you that I will _never_ throw something like this."

"Maybe not, but you're still going to have to attend those given by others."

"Says who?"

"Bruce and Alfred."

He slumped, defeated by the truth. "...Yeah." He'd been given no choice about attending tonight, he recalled, and if Dick's presence was any indication then the pressure to come to such functions didn't let up once one had left the proverbial nest. "Damn." Still, he supposed that the man beside him had it worse. "You're going to be expected to play host someday, you know."

"Yup."

"That sucks."

"Eh. I don't know, Timmy...the parties aren't so bad."

"You're kidding, right? They're _terrible_. Seriously, Dick, when Bruce decides that he's done being the king of Gotham society you should just let it stop. I know you hate this as much as I do; why torture yourself?"

"...A lot of people before Bruce have been responsible for throwing parties in this house. I'd feel bad for being the one who let the tradition die."

"It's not your tradition, Dick," he answered bluntly. "Don't take that the wrong way, but it's not. These aren't your people any more than they're mine or Bruce's, and we were born into their ranks. If you don't want to do it, then _don't._" A distant, downcast look came over the older male's face, and Tim felt a bolt of guilt. "Um...something wrong?"

"It's not that I'm not interested in throwing parties," Dick spoke in a quiet voice. "I am. I'm just not interested in throwing stodgy events like this."

..._Oh. Oops._ He'd misread him, and had ended up hurting his feelings. It wasn't like him to let his own feelings get in the way of his analysis, he frowned, but maybe it was just a side effect of how much he loathed these to-dos. Still, he should have known that his brother, always the natural entertainer, would want his chance to amuse Gotham society. "Well...what _are_ you interest in throwing, then?" he asked, trying to mend the breach he'd caused.

"I want people to actually have _fun _at these things_._ Alfred would have a fit if he heard me say this, but...I'd like to try theme parties. Very..._upscale_ theme parties, with verve and panache. You see the occasional hoity-toity masquerade ball, sure, but I'm thinking bigger." Dick's hands flailed as he began to sketch out his visions. "For instance, everybody was doing Gatsby parties a year ago, right?"

"Right." Tim wasn't sure that Gatsby parties had actually gone out of style – there were some dresses out on the floor tonight that certainly qualified as period replicas based on their sequin count alone – but he went along with it, curious as to where his brother's flight of fancy was headed.

"Why didn't anyone turn it on its head? Don't throw a Gatsby party; throw a speakeasy party. The guests could dress up like laborers and factory girls, you could have a secret password at the door instead of presenting your invitation, all of that good stuff. The challenge there, at least for ones like them," he waved to indicate the crowd, "would be to _look_ poor or, at best, middle-class, while still making it clear that they were actually wearing designer brands. 'Yes, this necklace is costume jewelry, but it's a twenty thousand dollar piece of costume jewelry that I ordered from Paris.' 'My husband's shirt may _look_ like that of a railway worker, but it's actually Armani.' That kind of thing."

"Let me get this straight," Tim scratched at his neck. "...You want to throw a party where anyone who wants to come has to be rich enough to be invited but also willing to dress up like they're poor?" It was either a terrible plan or one of the best party ideas he'd ever heard.

"Yeah! And the setting would have to match, too. There wouldn't be any bright, high ceilings and big windows like tonight; we're talking dark, kind of smoky, and with a few hired people skulking around looking like they're up to no good. Everyone would know that they were safe, but the _illusion_ of danger, the idea that the police might bust in and shake down the joint or that someone might try to pick your pocket...that would get people going. They'd enjoy that. It would give them a thrill."

Tim had turned his full attention on his brother now. It was clear that the man could see what he was outlining as if it was that event, not the bread-and-butter soiree that was actually going on, they were looking out over. If he wanted to be honest with himself, what had just been proposed sounded like the kind of thing he might get some pleasure out of himself. "Okay, so a reverse Gatsby party," he nodded. "What else?"

"Um...well..." Dick blushed, a bit of color rising into his cheeks. "A circus."

"Heh. Naturally."

"No, really! I'm not talking about a cliché circus, I'm talking about polish and flash. Think about it; you turn around, looking for a fresh drink, and instead of a hired guy carrying a tray someone drops down from the ceiling to hand you a glass and take your old one. Once the switch is done, he disappears back into the rafters. You could make this whole place look like a really ritzy big top, with lots of draped silk and tapestries...maybe put the tables and chairs out along the edges where the stands would be, and have the dance floor be the center ring. Instead of a canape buffet or, god forbid, more platter-bearers, you set up a few carts decorated like the food booths that always lead up to the tent's entrance. You could even put them out in the hall and dim the lights so it felt like people were going outside for a snack. Heck, maybe there could even be a show, right there in the middle of the ball. Not with animals or anything, but with acrobats, at least."

"Do you actually know any acrobats who would be willing to 'drop down' and serve drinks to rich snobs all night?" Tim arched an eyebrow. "Isn't that kind of a, you know, pride of profession issue?"

"I'm the only rich acrobat I've ever known, little brother. For the right money, and the right person...most of them wouldn't think of it as damaging to the pride of the profession at all. They'd think of it as a way to put food in the mouths of their children for a few more weeks and maybe entertain a few people at the same time. There's no shame in those things. After all, taking care of your family by doing or making something that pleases or serves others...that's what lies at the heart of all good professions, at least in my opinion."

"...Huh." He'd never thought about it quite that way before now, but what he'd just absorbed agreed with him. Busy processing the idea that had been put forth, he didn't speak for a minute. "...Dick?"

"Hmm?"

"I think I'd like _your_ parties. They sound fun."

The man grinned. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he smiled back. "They'd be a hell of a lot better than these things that we get roped into all the time."

"...You know, there's nothing saying we can't take this gathering up a notch, if you want."

A dangerous tingle ran down Tim's spine. "Bruce will be upset if we wreck his party."

"Would I do that?"

"Well, no, but...you _have_ been drinking."

"Timmy, Timmy, Timmy," Dick shook his head. "So little faith. Bruce and I both took alcohol neutralizers before we left our rooms."

"Oh." Of course they had, he kicked himself. It was going to be too late for patrol by the time the gala wound down, but neither man would want to risk a hangover in the morning, or worse, give their mouths an opportunity to run in public while their minds were clouded by booze. "I guess I should have known that." _I am just __not__ on par tonight,_ he grumbled at himself. Civilian parties had always had a tendency to cloud his senses, but this was getting downright annoying.

"Nah. It's not something you have to worry about yet, so why would you have thought about it?"

"I don't know, it's just-"

"Just that you're the smart one, so you have to have all of the answers?"

He felt his ears grow hot. "Um..."

"Relax, bro. You _are_ the smart one, but that doesn't mean that you have to always think of _everything _all by yourself_._"

"Yeah, well, still," he mumbled.

"Ah, come on." A hand landed on his shoulder. "Let it go, okay? This party could be a lot better if a certain pair of irreverent attendees took it upon themselves to do something about it. The civilized dullness that seems to have infected everyone here is fixing to put me to sleep, and I don't see anyone else around who looks ready to cause some boyish shenanigans, so...I guess it's us or no one." He shook him gently. "You up for it?"

Tim caught sight of the eager glint in his brother's eye and felt something playful spark to life in his stomach in response. "...Nothing too risque, right?" Dick could go back to Bludhaven in the morning if they went too far, but he would be left behind to deal with the wrath of Bruce and Alfred.

"Don't worry, I'm not going to get either one of us in trouble. To be honest, I just want to hear a few real laughs tonight. These people are just as bored by this as you and I are, they're just suppressing it. Some of them have been suppressing it for so many years that they don't even know that they aren't having fun anymore. If we can get them to laugh, though...that's when I'll consider this party to be a success."

It wasn't a bad idea, he had to admit, and if people ended up legitimately laughing then Bruce couldn't possibly get mad at them. He smiled and committed himself. "Okay, I'm in. What's first?"

A ponderous waltz began at that moment, emptying out the dance floor with a speed that was almost indecent. "...I vote we go see how much more interesting this song is when we dance to it in triple time with invisible partners," Dick grinned.

"They won't stay invisible for long. Yours won't, at least."

"Poor jailbait Timmy, doomed to dance alone for another six months."

"Poor _you_, doomed to dance with whichever girl can elbow her way to you first."

"Ugh. Thanks for reminding me. Now I don't ever want to leave this corner again."

"No way," Tim shook his head. "You said we were going to dance with invisible partners, and I want to see if you can keep your countenance when someone cuts in on your 'girl'."

"...Okay, but there should be bonus points if you make it look like you're stepping on your 'partner's' feet."

"You want us to look clumsy?"

"Yes. It throws people off of the fact that we aren't," he said with a meaningful look. "Also...if someone really awful grabs me while you're still alone, save me, would you?"

"You're telling me to snub one of the illustrious heiresses of Gotham in order to dance with my brother? That's not going to go over well."

"You don't have to snub her. Just tell her your name was already on my card."

"Oh, jesus...we're going to come out of this looking like idiots, aren't we?"

"Like 'Brucie' Wayne level imps, yes. Yes we are. But what's so bad about that?"

"Being invited to every one of these tedious things for the rest of time springs to mind."

"That's going to happen anyway, Timmy, so we might as well enjoy it."

"...We _are_ totally doomed, aren't we?"

"Totally. This is the dark side of being taken in by Bruce; you have to go to mind-numbing parties where the only décor is the host's net worth. The key is to try and do something to make them worth your time."

"Ah, shit. Well, then," he sighed, "may I have this dance, Mr. Grayson?"

Dick snorted with mirth and pretended to fan himself. "Why, Mr. Drake, I never thought you'd ask little old _me_! Lawks-a-mercy!"

"That's it. I'm not rescuing you from any heiresses if you're going to talk like that," Tim ribbed, crossing his arms.

"Aww..."

"Kidding."

"Race you to the parquet."

"Don't knock over any little old ladies on the way."

"Or stop to talk to any, either."

"Negative ten points per takeout or talking-to?"

"Done." Dick winked. "See you on the floor, little brother."

Tim let him go ahead, hoping that he could gain an early lead by sneaking past once the man got caught up by some matron with an eligible daughter or grand-daughter. As he'd expected, the hens closed ranks as soon as they saw the man they knew to be Bruce Wayne's heir coming, blocking his progress with their simpering smiles and false praise. Seeing his opening, Tim bolted from the corner, dodged a waiter, and made for the goal. On his way by he waved at the beleaguered Dick and signed '-10' to him, drawing a pained grimace. It made him smile, as did the anticipatory expression he saw roll across Bruce's face when he passed him a second later.

He was first to the open space in the middle of the room, but his brother managed to come in close behind him through some charming magic that he hadn't been able to see being worked. For a moment he was nervous; all eyes had turned to them, the sole figures on the dance floor, and what they were about to do was very, very silly. Then Dick bowed to him, and he bowed back automatically. They shared an absurdly serious nod, drawing a few murmurs from the crowd, and began to spin with their invisible partners locked in their arms.

The audience's laughter, a sound that was amused for once rather than teasing, grew as the seconds passed and their steps became more and more exaggerated. Mixed in with the general cacophony was Bruce's real baritone chuckle and, Tim was surprised to find, his own hum of enjoyment. People were suddenly having fun; real, honest fun. Tonight, he realized, his brother had made him an entertainer. Even more surprisingly, he'd managed to make him enjoy being one.

They wrapped up to widespread applause and bowed once more to each other and to their watchers. Now, he knew, they wouldn't be able to retreat into the shadows again, at least not tonight. Their performance had bound them to the mingling hundreds, and the sudden rush of handshakes and girlishly delighted titters threatened to overwhelm him. Dick's hand materialized on his elbow just in time and steered him to Bruce before either of them could be smothered. The billionaire greeted them with an indulgent smirk and, playing the slightly drunken Brucie, slung an arm over each of their shoulders. "Well, ladies," he announced, "now you know they can dance as well as their old man, huh?"

A fresh wave of laughter rippled outward, and some of the pressure in his chest released. Bruce had taken back center stage, and Tim was content to hang to the side of the limelight once again. His moment in the sun had been beautiful, and for perhaps the first time he understood why his brother and guardian didn't mind performing their respective roles for the crowd, but it wasn't the sort of thing he wanted to get into the habit of. It just wasn't him.

He was still glad it had happened, though, and he knew exactly who to thank when the room had emptied and they could have another quiet parlay in the corner.


	6. Friends and Lovers

Nightwing understood the importance of having people on global surveillance in the Watchtower at all times. It made sense; it was damned hard to do anything about a threat if you didn't know it existed. When one was injured and strictly forbidden from field work, guard duty was a satisfactory enough way to fill the time. The problem was that he always seemed to come up on the roster when he was perfectly healthy and eager to be out on the streets.

Tonight was such an instance. He'd been chasing a jewelry counterfeiting ring for weeks, working his way meticulously up the ladder to determine who sat at the top of the scheme, and had had every intention of continuing his investigation this evening. It wasn't as if he was missing a prime chance to crack the case by being above the Earth instead of on it – he was several rungs too low for that still – but seeing his name on the calendar had irked him nonetheless. The 'TBD' underneath was just as irritating, he thought as he dropped into a seat and leaned back to stare at the dozens of screens that were his responsibility for the next eight hours. If he was going to be on duty, he would have at least liked to know who he would be spending time with.

"You're here early," his question was answered a minute later. He pushed his chair around to face the new arrival, an eager-but-cautious grin spreading across his previously perturbed face as he recognized Batgirl's voice.

"Well if it isn't the prettiest heroine in the universe," he drawled, tipping an invisible Stetson to the woman in the doorway.

She responded by crossing her arms. "If all you're going to do is flirt in accents the whole shift, I'm leaving."

"If I flirt in my regular voice, will you stay?"

"You're impossible. And _no_. No flirting. We're here on business."

"You know every time you say that it just makes me more determined, right?" His tone was teasing, but the intent below it was not.

"Showing off your Batman-level stubbornness is a good way to watch the world spin all by your lonesome, Nightwing."

Wisely, he didn't ignore the warning in her words. "Okay, okay," he sighed. "Truce. I'll try to be good."

"You'll 'try'?"

"It's a hard guarantee to make when you're around," he shrugged, "but I'll do my best. Honest."

"Hmm...fine. But I reserve the right to leave if you start up," she stated, finally coming forward to occupy the chair beside him. "Got it?"

"I got it. No flirting, just friends," he grimaced. "Or am I not allowed to be friendly now, either?" The way she'd been acting towards him of late made it a valid question. When she'd been a single woman she had usually allowed him to get a few sugary lines in before she shut him down. Since hooking up with her current boyfriend, however, she'd adopted a no-nonsense policy, and even his most innocuous implications were now met with stony looks. Half of the texts he sent her, even the non-suggestive ones, went unanswered, and he was lucky to get the time of day if he met her on the street or passed her in the space station's halls. Given all of that, he was beginning to wonder if she was trying to squeeze him out of her life altogether.

For a moment there was a glint of guilt in her gaze. "...I didn't say that."

"Maybe not out loud," he murmured. "Anyway," he shook himself and placed his attention on the computer in front of him, "I glanced over the notes from the last couple of shifts. There's unrest in the all the usual places, the stock markets are swinging like kids on a playground, and everyone's favorite dictators got together to release a compilation of new 'come at me, bro' speeches."

"So that's business?" she asked, craning to try and see his face.

"Yup. That's business." He fell silent. It wasn't what he wanted to do, but she'd ruled out the things he could say from the safety of his flirtation shield and he didn't have the energy to try and be 'just friends' right now. "That's...business."

She cleared her throat. "I, ah...Batman said you're chasing some jewel thieves?"

"Counterfeiters," he corrected, focused now on the monitors that were streaming news in nineteen languages. If he didn't look at her, he thought, maybe it wouldn't hurt so much.

"Oh. Anyone I know?"

"Nope. All Bludhaven babies."

"...Oh. Well-"

"Why did you volunteer?" he whispered suddenly.

"Huh?" Her mouth turned down. "Nightwing, what-"

"Why," he repeated, "did you volunteer for tonight? I saw the schedule; it was me and TBD. If you hadn't volunteered, I'd be sitting here alone right now regardless of how the rules say guard duty is supposed to be handled. So why?"

"...I wanted to see you."

"Bullshit." The word was out of his mouth before he realized he was even thinking it.

"It's the truth."

"Really? You're not worried that your boyfriend will be angry at you for talking to another man?"

"...No. Nightwing-"

"Oh wait, how could he be? He doesn't know that you know me, at least not like _this_," he swept a hand to indicate his costume, "because he's a civilian who you haven't told the truth to yet. Right. Sorry. Stupid me." The helpless emotions of a man watching the woman he adores walk away from him had started streaming forth through the crack in his control that her unexpected appearance had caused, and now that it had started he couldn't make it stop. "You know...I lied to you earlier."

"...What?"

"I lied to you." His voice was low, almost gentle, but he was squeezing the arms of his chair so tightly that his fingernails threatened to go through his gloves. "I told you I would try to just be friendly tonight. But I can't do that, not tonight, not _any_ night. I can't do that because I love you. Whether you like it or not, that's how it is, and I'm not going to shove that part of me away in the hopes of getting to be the 'friend' that everyone else is a little creeped out by because they know the truth. Do you know what happens to people who do that, who shove away their love for someone and try to pretend it never happened? Do you?"

"No," she shook her head, her pursed lips barely moving as they mouthed her answer.

"They have this bad tendency to become villains. Well, I refuse to do that, even for you," he swore. "Even for you, I wouldn't. Not that. Not ever."

Their eyes stayed locked for several long seconds despite the lenses that stood between them. Then Nightwing pulled away, turning his gaze back to the screens. He felt hollow, and yet somehow better than he had in many weeks. Either she would hate him now or she wouldn't, but his feelings towards her wouldn't change, and that was the crux of the matter. Whatever happened next, he had played his last card, and had nothing further to lay down on the table.

"...He dumped me last week."

His brows drew down. "What?"

"I told him. I thought...he said he saw us going places together, and...well, I thought it was the right time. It would have felt wrong, making things serious without him knowing. Anyway...he dumped me."

"I assume you're safe despite that?"

A hard half-sob, half-laugh tore from her throat. "...Batman said the exact same thing when I told him. Down to the last syllable."

"If you were talking to him about it, then you _aren't_ safe," he frowned. "What, are you hiding out up here or something?" He straightened, a mixture of anger and alarm rushing into his veins. It would only take one strategic unmasking, he knew, to out them all, and god only knew what would come of that.

"It's okay," she said, reading his distress. "Bryan promised that he wouldn't tell. He wanted me to quit and just be with him, but...I couldn't do that. I _can't_ quit. I told..." She took a deep breath. "I told him that if he wanted to be with me then he had to accept me for who I am. For..._all_ of who I am. And no, the irony of that in light of your soliloquy a minute ago isn't lost on me."

He hadn't figured that it was, but he let it be. "Can you trust him?"

"I wouldn't have told him at all if I didn't know that I could. Give me some credit. Everything's fine, at least on that count, but..."

"But he still dumped you."

"Yeah."

"...Asshole."

"He doesn't understand, that's all."

"No. You're right. He doesn't." He hesitated. "So why did you talk to Batman about your douche of an ex if he promised to keep your secret?"

"Because what _I _told_ you_ earlier wasn't a lie."

"...What?"

"I wanted to see you," she shrugged. "Call it bullshit all you want, but it's the truth. I thought you might be at the cave, since it's a weekend, but it was just him. He told me you were up here, so...here I am."

"...Why?" he circled back to his original question.

"Honestly? Because I knew you'd make me feel better, and I thought...I thought maybe I owed you an apology. I know I've come off as a bitch lately, but I wanted things to work with Bryan so badly, and he has this jealousy streak..." She trailed off. "Anyway, that's over, and I just realized that I missed you. That's all. I missed my friend."

"Yeah, well..." Part of him felt like crying, while the rest of him was screaming not to backslide on the statements he'd voiced only a short while before. "I already told you how I feel about that."

"I know," she nodded. "But you're still doing it."

"Doing what?"

"Being my friend. There's more mixed up in there, I know, but right now you're being the best friend I have despite yourself, and despite...despite me."

"There's no 'despite' you. You're just...you. I'm used to that by now." He saw her wince out of the corner of his eye, but he didn't apologize. There was no point, not when they both knew it was the truth.

"I'm sorry, Dick."

He started, surprised not only by her use of his real name but by the deep regret in her voice. "You already apologized," he shook his head. "Well...more or less."

"Not well enough. I've been a terrible friend to you."

"People fight. That's just how it is." He sighed. "That doesn't mean that they can't make up."

"I'm talking about more than just the way I've been holding you at arm's length. I know you love me, you've made that perfectly clear. But you're a much better friend than I am, because you love _all_ of me. Meanwhile, I've been trying to make you stop flirting, stop teasing, stop...stop loving me so damn well. Stop being so _you_. Don't ask me why I would want that, because I don't know. All I know is that I don't think I've ever had a better friend than you, and I don't think I'll ever _find_ a better one, either."

It took everything he had to keep from giving in then and there, so happy was he to just have her talking to him again they way she used to. "I don't understand what you're asking me to do."

"...I'm asking you to be you."

"That's not what you wanted when you came in a while ago."

"I know. That's because I was afraid I'd never find an opening to talk about all this if you launched right into the compliments. I still don't feel ready to have such a _vocal_ one-man fan club as you like to be sometimes," she smiled, "but...there's something dad used to tell me when I was little. He hasn't said it recently, but I see it in his eyes sometimes. He told me that the strongest relationships are built on friendship. If your partner in life isn't your friend, the road will be a bumpy one. But if your partner in life is your _best_ friend...well, then it won't matter how bumpy the road is. You'll enjoy the ride simply because you're taking it together."

She held out her hand, and Nightwing felt his breath catch. "...I'm not looking for a partner in life at the moment," she went on, "but I _would_ like my best friend back. If he'll have me, that is. After that...well, we'll see where the road leads."

"Been a bumpy ride lately, has it?" he asked, his tongue dry.

"Mm...it doesn't seem so bad right now. I guess things are easier when there's someone beside you who's feeling the same thing."

"Are they?"

"...Yeah. They are."

His glove slid over hers. Their fingers squeezed for a moment, then retreated. "You're not wrong about that," he murmured.

Neither spoke again until one of the screens they were supposed to be monitoring began rolling clips of a warzone somewhere below them. When the report had ended, the woman sighed. "Too bad Earth can't have a best friend. The poor girl needs it."

"It does have a best friend," Nightwing rebutted.

"Who would that be, exactly?"

"Us, of course. Through all of its flaws and outbursts, pains and pleasures, we love it just the same."

"...Wait, are you talking about the League?"

"Yeah. What's wrong with that?"

"You're anthropomorphizing an organization," she scoffed.

"Well, if corporations can have the same rights as people..."

"Gee, I wonder who raised _you_?"

"Heh. But seriously...think about it. You've been to other planets, some of them very nice; but did any of them feel quite as _right_ as Earth?"

"...No," she admitted. "No, they didn't. But if the League is going to be the Earth's 'best friend,' then we should probably be watching out for her a little better."

"You have a point. She's going through a bit of a phase right now," he let a hint of teasing slip into his tone. Recalling the warmth he had felt when her fingers had pressed his, he nudged his luck. "You want some popcorn to go with the drama, pretty lady?"

"Do I get to throw it at you for the sheer audacity of that comment?"

"I'll make you a deal." His smile, absent for the last half-hour, peeked out of hiding. "You can throw a piece at me every time I flirt with you."

"...Go get a bowl, you dork," she smirked. "And bring the vacuum cleaner for when we have to pick up our mess later."

"I'll make it a double batch," he beamed, rising. "...I have a lot of catching up to do."

* * *

**Author's Note: I hope you've all enjoyed this little series. Be sure to check 'Camp Batman' for an update tomorrow if you're following that story as well. Happy reading!**


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